


Love is Just Another Leap of Faith

by Purplesauris



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boba has a complicated relationship with being a mandalorian, Boba meets the family, Boba's POV, Disabled Boba Fett, Disabled Din Djarin, Disabled luke skywalker, Drinking Games, Luke is a brick shit house in a fight and his boyfriends are impressed, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Relationship Negotiation, again...., complicated feelings, it's just an excuse to write romance, mentions of a subplot, miscommunications, mostly boba'luke centric this time lads, once again i am fucking with the force and no one can stop me, this has a lot of intropsection on Boba's part, this is at first din has two hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29991030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplesauris/pseuds/Purplesauris
Summary: Boba and Din are an immovable force together- deadly, fierce, passionate. But sometimes, sometimes you need something more. Something a little more mystical, a little more Jedi.
Relationships: Boba Fett/Luke Skywalker, Din Djarin/Boba Fett, Din Djarin/Boba Fett/Luke Skywalker, Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 45
Kudos: 206





	Love is Just Another Leap of Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Im in rarepair hell and it's all the discords fault. Din has two hands... luke has two hands.... boba has two hands...... triangles are the strongest shape :)
> 
> The sex scene in this fic is optional! You do NOT have to read it if it squicks you out, so for comfort I've marked with two asterisks when the scene starts and then ends. Happy reading!!

“Why are we inviting the _Jetii_ again?”

“We need more firepower.” He says, as if that answers literally _any_ of his questions. It adds about six more, actually. But Din is looking at him as if that’s supposed to explain it, and he feels a little stupid when he raises a brow and says,

“And he’s… Firepower.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re not saying this just because-” Din’s cheeks flush, red high on his cheekbones, and it’s hard to get used to the sight. Harder still to see the way that he ducks his head when he knows Boba is looking at him, as if that will hide the blush and his sheepish expression, and know it’s Din. “Right. Firepower.”

“You’ll see what I mean.” He mutters, glancing back up and toward the living room, where Luke is waiting. He can hear soft shuffling footsteps, a voice carrying just faintly, but the words are impossible to make out. Din says he does this a lot- talking to beings who aren’t there, ranting to himself at the most inane times. Jedi things. 

All it spells for Boba is trouble, and trouble is the last thing he needs. Especially from a Jedi who very helpfully launched him into a sarlacc pit. And threw a box at his head. And wields the same kind of blade that- he shutters that thought, nipping it in the bud before it can grow, and turns to find Din watching him. His blush is gone, though the color still warms him, and he reaches for him instinctively. There’s no hesitance to either of them as his hand finds the nape of Din’s neck, drawing him in so their foreheads can rest together. 

“As long as he can hold his own.”

“He can. I wouldn’t ask him to risk it otherwise.” 

Not with his child so recently in training. Not with Luke being the only Jedi in apparently the galaxy with enough knowledge or gumption to even train the little tyke. 

He leans firmer into their embrace, closing his eyes. “I trust you.”

His eyes are warm when Boba pulls back, and his lips twitch in a smile, small and just for him. “Thank you.” 

Heart pounding in his chest, he rolls his eyes, grabbing his helmet off the dresser and heading for the door. “Let’s get this over with. Supposed to be _my_ weekend with you.”

Din mutters something behind him, something both fond and disgruntled, and he hears the words ‘custody battles’ before the door is sliding open. He expects the Jedi to stop pacing, stop talking, but he doesn’t even look at them, and he can see a holo flashing on his wrist, though he’s waving his hands too much for the image to solidify. So, not his weird ghost talking. He stops when the door opens, and finally the image can form enough for him to get the faint side profile of his sister before Luke is ending the call. 

“Is he okay?”

Din pops around him, helmet still under his arm, and he watches the way that Luke visibly softens at the sight of him. Like all his hard edges have been sanded down at once, a smile gracing his face as he dips his head in a nod. “Yeah, yeah he’s alright. She was asking about his bedtime routine.”

“She doesn’t know it by now?” Luke laughs, smile growing, and Din smiles back. Everytime- everytime he sees them he expects something. Jealousy, rage, all the emotions that people talk about when they think of their partner with someone else. But he can’t: just the sight of him, smiling, shoulders relaxed under the pauldrons, brings him more happiness than anything else. He deserves to be happy, deserves those smiles, and Luke can coax them out as well as he can. 

There was a lot that he’d thought about while acid ate its way through his skin, lit his nerves on fire. Most of those thoughts weren’t exactly flattering- for Luke or his friend who’d apparently landed the blow on his jetpack that had sent him careening in. The others… He tries not to dwell too much if he can help it. His scalp itches just at the thought of the dankness of the pit, and he has to force his hands to stay at his side even as the scar twisting across his cheek flares with a dull ache. 

He can hear them talking still, watches Din’s lips moving, but it’s something about training, and he hasn’t been paying enough attention to parse what it is. He wants to tell them that they don’t have all day, that the suns will be setting soon, but Din is grinning now, a full thing with a flash of teeth, and his heart twists. 

The scar on his cheek twinges again, sharper this time, and Luke’s eyes meet his. They’re always paler than he expects- in the palace they’d seemed so _dark_ , radiating with anger and desperation. But now- now they burrow into him, clear and at peace, and something distinctly cool brushes along the scar. It dulls the ache, dulls the itching that’s cropped up over his skin, and he seizes up at the feeling. Luke’s eyes go soft, distant, as if trapped in another time, and he reaches out a hand to nudge at Din’s vambrace.

“I’ll be on the ship, when you’re ready.”

“We-” Din goes to protest, to argue, but Luke’s lashes flutter, brushing against his cheeks briefly before he turns his gaze away and leaves the room. The cooling feeling leaves with him, and he can take a full breath again, even as the ache creeps back up on him. At least the itching is gone, which is a relief. Din is turning to him before he can mask the discomfort, and Din’s expression grows sad. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” 

“Are you sure? We can-”

“It isn’t him.” He snaps, instantly grimacing at the tone. He tries it again, softer this time. “He’s fine. Told you that before.”

“Right.” But Din doesn't look like he believes him, and he isn’t about to explain that he wants to strangle him and thank him for making Din smile at the same time. How he looks at him and remembers the Sarlacc. Remembers the fool he’d been before. How he looks at him in just the right light and can sometimes trick himself into thinking that this man, this Jedi, is nothing like the scraggly kid who’d fought to save his friend and sister from Jabba.

“Let’s go. I don’t need him messing up the _Slave_.” Din huffs a laugh and slips his helmet on in reply, waiting until Boba has done the same to clink their foreheads together briefly. 

He’s on the ship when they duck out into the afternoon heat of Tatooine’s binary suns. Only in the vaguest of terms though- he spots the Jedi’s boots first, dangling off the slim tip of the _Slave_ , and can see nothing else for a minute after, blinded by midafternoon light. Din spots him there too, head tilting in confusion, but Luke’s face is turned toward the twin suns. Like a flower or a solar panel he gravitates toward them, toward their harsh light and warmth. 

He opens his mouth to tell him to get off the ship, to stop scuffing his paint, but Luke is turning toward them, slipping down without a thought. It’s at least a twenty foot drop from the tip of the ship in it’s laying position, and he expects Luke to land hard. Expects it, but doesn’t get it. He lands light as a single grain of sand, first on his toes, then letting his weight rock back into his heels as his legs bend to take the impact. His robes flutter around him for a moment, hair gone staticky, and Din sucks a breath in beside him.

That means something- whether it’s between the two of them or just something he hasn’t caught on to yet he isn’t sure. But his hair settles, his robes stop moving, and his expression only flickers minutely when he glances Boba’s way. “Done? We’ll be lucky to make it before the suns go down.”

“Not the one who spent twenty minutes arguing with her sister.” He points out, walking past Luke and up the ramp of the ship. Luke calls after him as he hauls himself into the cockpit, amusement painting his words. 

“How long did it take you to armor up again?” 

He doesn’t deign him with a response, and instead hoists himself up into his seat and straps in. He expects Din to join him in the cockpit like he normally does, but the comm in his helmet crackles, and Din’s voice is low and way too close to his ear to keep the shivers from coming. 

“I’ll stay down on the guns.”

“Skywalker not a good shot?”

“You want some of them alive if we go in hot.” Din muses, like there would be doubt if Luke were the one manning the guns. He doesn't give that much thought, merely shakes his head and grunts out an affirmative. Din’s pleased little hum in response skitters along his spine, and he lifts off a bit harsher than he means to. “Easy.”

“Shut up and man the guns.”

“Oh, I will.” His voice drops lower, excitement edging in, and Boba very pointedly closes the comm between them. The last thing he needs is Din trying to sweet talk him in the middle of a firefight with Luke _fucking_ Skywalker somewhere in the ship. He has no clue where he is, though he can hear someone walking around below- every time he looks at his cameras, tries to track him as they shoot through the sky toward distant Mos Espa, all he gets is a black blur and flash of silver. 

Like he's intimately aware of the cameras, and is letting him know it. But that would be ridiculous- he has nothing to fear from Luke, and as long as Luke doesn't get him anywhere near a sarlacc, Luke has nothing to fear from _him._ Still, the thought that he can't seem to find him is unsettling, and he's half tempted to open the comm to tell Din to reign in his boyfriend.

Reign him in, so that when he suddenly appears in the cockpit, blue eyes trained on the viewport and lips parted in surprise, he doesn't have a _fucking heart attack._

"You're going to get shot." He bites out, in no way pleased at his stunt. Skywalker only waves a hand, an idle gesture that he's sure has placated someone else. 

"You were flying."

"I can shoot you one handed."

"You could." He agrees, and those blue eyes cut over to him, piercing through the beskar of his helmet and pinning him in place. "But you won't."

"I won't?"

He smiles, something cheeky and smug, and he watches the way that Luke's jaw moves as he talks. "You won't."

"Don't be cocky."

"Don't be readable." 

"Don't use those powers of yours, and read me then." 

He laughs- the sound is husky in his throat, and he finds his own mouth abruptly dry at the sound. He expects another snappy retort, something about not needing his powers, but all he gets is a murmured, "Alright."

Neither of them seem to be sure on what to say after that, but Luke settles down in the seat, curled up like a loth cat. His robes swallow most of his form, engulfing him in fabric, but he burrows down like he’s cold, and that has Boba frowning. He glances over at him briefly, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth to try and talk, but Luke’s eyes are closed, lashes near translucent in the sunlight streaming through the window, and he suddenly doesn’t want to disturb him. 

He flies them as close to Mos Espa as he can: he doesn’t want to set them off to his presence and risk having them leave. Boba needs them, needs at least one of them alive. He lands them a respectable distance away- far enough that they won’t spot the ship, but close enough that the walk or subsequent sprint back to the ship won’t kill them. He’s expecting Luke to lurch or move when they land and the cockpit tips backwards, but he just sinks back into the seat, face serene. Did he-

“Hey.” He clicks back over to their shared comm, getting a small hum in reply. “Does he just- fall asleep?”

A small laugh filters through the crackle of their comms. “He’s meditating.” 

“He looks like he’s sleeping.” 

“He’s not. Say his name.” Boba eyes the Jedi critically, turning in his chair and clearing his throat. 

“Skywalker.” No response. “ _Skywalker_.”

“His name, Fett.”

“That _is_ his name.”

That earns him a heavy sigh. “I’ll be up in a minute.” 

“I can do it.” Din laughs, and the comm goes dead again. He can hear him hauling himself out of the gunner's seat and up toward the cockpit, so he huffs, biting back his own unease. “Luke.”

The Jedi comes alive instantly, cheeks flushing with color and eyelids fluttering as he registers where he is. He looks around the cockpit sightlessly, reorienting himself, and when he finds Boba sitting, staring at him, something flickers there before his face goes soft, calm. 

“We’re here?”

Swallowing down a sudden bout of nerves- or maybe it’s nausea? He nods. “Close enough.”

Luke claps his hands together, one gloved, one bare, and rubs them in anticipation. “Time to get the show on the road. Din, get off the ladder.” 

The last part is directed to the door of the cockpit, but there’s a soft scoff and then the sound of someone dropping down. Even he hadn’t heard Din coming yet. Luke looks toward him, head tilted, and gestures toward the waiting exit. 

“After you.” 

He slips from his chair before Luke can do something _else_ weird as hell, and descends the ladder down into the cargo bay. Din is waiting at the bottom, near the ramp, blaster and spear across his back. His helmet is in place, but he doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s grinning, pleased, and Boba gives an exaggerated shake of his head, heading for his weapons locker. He straps on his _gaderffii_ and a separate blaster, adjusting himself to the familiar weight. 

He doesn’t have to carry them at home, though sometimes he does. The palace is as secure as he can manage to make it, and with both Fennec and on occasion Din haunting their halls, raiders and bounty hunters tend to stay away. Though, his reputation is more than enough to keep anyone smart enough away without the threat of anyone else. He’s the last one ready, and he eyes Luke again as he stands there, bare of weapons save for the silver cylinder on his hip. 

Before he can think much he grabs another rifle, holding it out toward Luke. Luke looks at it, amused, and shakes his head. “I won’t need it.”

“You will if you get disarmed.”

“I pity the man who disarms me.” 

“Just take the rifle.” 

“Nah.” His eyes narrow, grip tightening on the weapon, and Luke sweeps toward him, walking closer and closer until his fingers wrap around the barrel of the rifle. He plucks it from Boba’s hands, turning it over in his to admire it a moment before it slips from his grip, floating _back_ into the weapons locker. A much smaller, weaker pistol and holster drift out, and he plucks it from the air. “I’ll take this, if it makes you feel better.”

He wants to tell him that it isn’t about him feeling better, it’s about being _safe_ , but he can’t quite get his jaw to unclench at the image of Luke’s fingers around the barrel of a gun. 

“If you two are done?” Din calls, clearly amused by two immovable forces butting up against one another. “Luke, strap the holster on and get going.”

“Righto, captain.” He mock salutes, two fingers to his brow, and Din chuckles while Luke straps the holster on. It’s a thigh holster- way too visible for a scouting mission, but the folds of his cloak hide it well enough, and even he can admit that the straps around his thigh look good. That the sight of him with any kind of steel looks good. 

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Lingering back with Din while they walk, he watches Luke tread through the sand. He walks like he’s completely used to the shifting and sliding, at ease even as his feet sink in when he stops to let them catch up. The sandstone walls of Mos Espa loom before them quicker than he expects, and he eyes the suns as they begin their descent. They throw the world into smears of oranges, reds and golds, and Luke’s hair catches them all. Din seems breathless at the sight and he elbows him in the side, tilting his head when Din turns his head away in a blush. 

“Sap.”

“He’s pretty.” That earns Din another elbow in the side, but he shoves lightly at Boba’s shoulder in retaliation, and he smiles behind the helmet. “You’re pretty too.” 

“I know.”

“Has anyone told you you’re cocky?” 

“Once or twice.”

Din laughs, shaking his head, and they fall silent again. Luke waits for them at the entrance to the city, hands hidden in his sleeves. His head tilts at the sight of both of them, and at least three different emotions play across his face in rapid succession- fondness, apprehension, and anticipation. He’s pretty sure that the apprehension is for him. 

“They’re waiting for us in the main square.” 

“How many?” Din doesn’t ask _how_ Luke knows, but he supposes that’s more of his weird Jedi shit. Luke’s eyes drop shut, a little crease forming between his brow, and his lips begin to move. He doesn’t say anything at first, but the longer he stares, the easier it is to recognise that they’re numbers. Twenty. Twenty one. Twenty two. He keeps going and going and going, until he’s mouthing thirty six- and then his eyes snap open.

“Thirty six in the square.”

“Hostages?” He asks, watching the way that Luke’s face falls. None. Alright then. “This is going to be messy.”

“That’s why you called me in, right?”

“Right.” That’s why Din called him in at least. He’s still never seen Luke fight, and he’s doubting that him and Din are going to be able to keep up with protecting his ass. Din doesn’t seem worried though, instead he seems calm, calmer than he’s seen him in a firefight before. 

But he’s had enough standing around, so he shoulders his way past both of them and slips into the city. He hasn’t been to Mos Espa in years, but the layout hasn’t changed, the sandstone of the houses still crumbling and worn by wind. They all look relatively the same, so it’s easy to get lost if you don’t know exactly where you’re going. Luckily he does, and he leads them through side streets, ducking into cramped alleys and stepping over people passed out drunk. That is a sight he’s familiar with, people flush with heat and too much spirit, too dizzy to stand and too tired to care about getting sunburnt.

The longer they’re in the city, the deeper they go, the more that his skin crawls. Something or someone is watching them, tracking them through the city, and his jaw aches from clenching it. He’s only mildly unsettled by the feeling of being hunted, but when he glances at Din he finds his shoulders just as tense, his hand just as liable to twitch toward his blaster. Only Luke seems unaffected, eyes trained straight ahead at some far off point, not really seeing where they’re going. His lips move on occasion, mumbling numbers again, but they count never gets any higher than 36. 

That’s a blessing at least. He can already imagine how sore he’s going to be tomorrow, and he’s not looking forward to it. 

The square comes up on them faster than he expects, though maybe it’s because their pace picked up, slowly at first until they were nearly running. There’s a moment where they pause in the doorway, just listening, and he flicks his hud over to heat seeking at the same time that Din does. Smears of red light up his view, body after body, and though the sandstone of the houses around them dampen it, he can see what Luke meant. There are no elevated heartbeats, nothing to betray fear. No hostages. 

“We have to draw them out.” Din whispers, rifle in hand and grip tight around the barrel. He’s inclined to agree- the more of them that remain hidden, the harder it’s going to be to get them all taken care of. 

“They won’t give up their hiding places if they don’t have to.” 

“Then we need to-”

“Take away their viewpoints.” It’s the first that Luke has talked in a while past mouthing numbers, and only his training keeps him from jumping out of his boots. “Give me a minute.”

“You’re sure?” Din asks, and Luke laughs, going up on his toes to clank their foreheads together briefly. 

“Of course. What am I here for?”

This, apparently. He doesn’t voice that statement though, biting his tongue instead. He wants to give some kind of word of encouragement: it feels like he should say _something_ , what with him putting himself out on the line, but Luke doesn’t look toward him for encouragement before he’s slipping away from them. He pads out into the middle of the square, ignoring the multiple whines of blasters charging up. His steps are unhurried, his hands still hidden, and he stops in the middle of the open area. All of the normal food stalls are shoved toward the buildings to allow for more foot traffic, and almost none of them will make for good cover should things go wrong.

But Luke only stands in the middle of the square, wind blowing, and does a slow turn on his heel. Nothing seems to happen, and he’s half ready just to say fuck it and head in when the sand begins to shift. It curls like an affectionate snake around his ankles, bright against the black of his boots. It rises higher and higher, bigger and bigger, and Luke turns faster and faster. His eyes close, shoulders tensing, and the sand rises higher now, enveloping him completely. 

“What the fuck is he doing?”

“You’ll see.” Din says, and he’s really getting tired of their cryptic togetherness. Not them being together just- the non answers. 

But he doesn’t have to wait long to get his answer. Din reaches up, tugging the cloak around his neck a bit higher, and Boba finds himself doing the same, following his lead. It’s a good thing he does, because the sand bunches up, suctioning to Luke like a second skin for an instant before it blows wide. The entirety of the square is cloaked in sand, wind carrying it faster and faster, and he can hear doors begin to open. He can hardly see anyone through the sand, but that’s the point- people come streaming from the buildings, heading for the middle, where Luke still stands, spinning in place. 

The first blaster shot lights the sand up red, and he loses sight of Luke as they charge in. Thermal spots of red and yellow are all that he can see and he shoots for them on instinct, ducking behind a stall for a moment to search for Luke. He can’t see him, but he can hear doors slamming shut, one after the other. He’s locking them all into the square. Smart son of a bitch. 

Sand buffets against his armor, scratching at his paint, but the state of his armor is the last thing on his mind as he pops up, picking off person after person. Old contacts from Bib’s time as king- a shit king, more content to girls and spice and too much wine, but a king in name. He intends to drag that name kicking and screaming through the mud until he can wear it like a mantle once again, can sit in the palace by Mos Eisley and not worry. Or pretend not to worry. 

“Where the fuck is Skywalker?” He asks, trying not to shout over the comms. Din can hear him, even if all _he_ can hear is his blaster shots and sand dinging against his helmet. 

“Southwest corner.” 

“Tell him to drop the damn sand- he’s just as hot as the rest of them and I don’t need him crying if he gets shot.” 

Din laughs, and the comm crackles down to nothing as Din pops his head up. “Luke! Drop it!” 

His voice carries over the square, magnified by his helmet, and all at once the sand rains to the ground, leaving them clear and free to turn off their thermal huds. He does so without complaint, and he doesn’t need to count to know that Luke is overwhelmed. But he counts anyway- 2, 4, then 7, 10 people converge on his position, and neither of them can take a shot without risking him.

He wants to call out, to tell him to duck or something, but Luke’s face is serene. At peace. He allows them to swarm him, to come at him with blades and blasters, and at the last minute, ducks down into the seething crowd. He hears himself yell- feels the sound rip out of his throat, but then green flares to life, flooding his eyes, and he watches, dumbfounded, as the crowd goes down. They go down, twitching and steaming and crying, and in the middle, hair floating and eyes wide, is Luke. Luke, who holds a lightsaber in hand, blade singing even through the space of the square- Luke, whose eyes are trained solely on him, even as he spins and sinks his blade into someone’s chest. 

He’s the most beautiful thing that Boba has ever seen. 

He feels someone coming up behind him too late to stop it, but he’s stuck in Luke’s orbit, stuck circling those blue eyes, watching when that gloved hand raises. He isn’t sure what he expects, but the sound of a neck snapping behind him isn’t it, and he gasps. It’s a soft sound, barely picked up through his modulator, but Luke shudders across the way, and whatever spell was holding him breaks. He shakes himself, scolding for allowing himself to be so distracted, and he picks off the people who have managed to find vantage points on the roof. He picks them off so that Luke doesn’t have to. 

He keeps his eyes to the skies, ignoring the pull, the whispering in his mind that tells him to look- to look and never tear his gaze away at the way that Luke spins. The way that he comes alive with a saber in hand and an enemy to focus on. He’s not the same scraggly kid he was- there’s no way he can be. He’s a different person entirely-

He’s a powerhouse, a veritable army all on his own, and Boba feels struck dumb by the thought. He doesn’t tend to keep count, but out of the thirty six people Luke told them was in the square, he has to have taken out at least twenty on his own. With nothing more than the Force and the lightsaber glowing in his hand. They’re nearing the end of the fight, he knows it- their forces are dwindling, people are trying to run, but Luke catches them all, drags them back with a clenched fist as Din ends them with a well placed shot. Like shooting fish in a barrel, Luke makes it stupidly easy to fight them off. 

He sees what Din meant by firepower. By all the gods, he sees what he means. 

“One alive, _Cyar'ika_!” The pet name seems so out of place on a battlefield, but Din doesn’t seem to care, and Luke’s cheeks go pink, a pleased smile spreading across his face. 

“Got it!” He calls back, ducking under a swinging fist and twirling out of the way of a blaster shot. Boba picks off the last gunman hiding on the roof, scowling at how close it came to hitting Luke, but Luke doesn’t care. He’s circling the man trying to hit him, ducking and weaving around his blows as if the man is no more than a child. He moves with all the intuition of a skilled fighter, and then some, reading his moves, reading his intentions before the man even telegraphs them. 

Boba wants to get him in a sparring ring and see how long he can last. He wants to see if he can overpower him, if he’s good enough to go toe to toe with a Jedi. If he’s good enough to go toe to toe with _Luke_. Heat builds under his suit the longer that he thinks about it, flushing down his neck and chest, and he tries to look away. He’s faintly aware of Din coming up to him, taking his arm, but he’s not looking at him, can hardly concentrate. 

“See what I meant?” His voice is rougher, far lower than it has any right to be, and his heart leaps in his chest. “He’s all mine.” 

The possession, the pride in his voice should hurt- it should _hurt_ , but Boba is burning with that same thought- with the same frenzied want that he can feel when Din presses against his side, fingers digging into his lower back as they watch Luke work. 

“It’s a good thing you married him first, Djarin.”

Din laughs, hand drifting, and Boba shudders when he traces at one of the scars winding over his back, teasing the sensitive mark. “I can be convinced to share.” 

Boba’s breath punches out of his chest at the thought and that’s- weird. Weird, that he’s looking at one of the main reasons for all his scarring, that he’s looking at him and thinking only about what sounds he thinks he would make. What expressions he could pull from him. What it would be like if he woke up with Luke curled up against his side, hogging the blankets-

It’s weird.

It’s weird and he finds that he’s done weirder. 

It’s tiring though, watching Luke like this. There’s so much energy around him, goading him on, and despite the relative ease of the takeover he just wants to go home. Go home and get the sand out of his clothing. So he yells across the way, just loud enough for Luke to hear. “Stop playing with him, Skywalker.”

Luke’s lips curl in a vicious grin, and his eyes find Boba’s through the helmet as he inclines his head. “Of course, your Majesty.” 

Ending it, apparently, means leaning back, throwing all his weight onto his one leg as he slams his boot into the chest of the zabrak he’s fighting with the other. The man goes flying with all the grace of a brick, landing hard in the sand, and Luke straightens up, brushing off his robes and clipping his lightsaber back onto his belt. Boba’s chest hurts just watching that, and he doesn't know whether it’s in sympathy or because he’s going to _destroy_ him. Thinking on it, it seems more likely that it’s both. 

They gather the now unconscious man and get him in cuffs for transport back. Once there, Fennec will do what she does best, and he might just be able to get a full night of sleep for once. Gods, if that doesn’t sound incredible. He has to be getting old. The trek back to the ship and the flight back to the palace is easier than he expects, but the whole damn thing is easy with a Force wielding Jedi next to you. Even if said Jedi looks keyed up and strung out in a way that seems… very reminiscent of him coming down from stims. It’s a wonder, to see him this way, amped up on adrenaline and maybe something else. 

Din goes on ahead with the zabrak, intent to get him locked away for the night so that they can settle. That leaves Boba with a very energetic Jedi on his hands, and he has to practically drag him down the hallway, bypassing the throne room and heading for the west wing, where his quarters are. If he lets go he’s pretty sure Luke is going to start bouncing off the wall, and he doesn’t need that. So he holds onto Luke’s arm and tries not to jerk when Luke slides his hand to link their fingers instead. 

In retrospect, bringing Luke to his quarters might have been a mistake. He doesn't seem to care where he is, eyes distant and pupils blown. He looks around the room once, deems it acceptable, and shucks off his robe. It gets tossed somewhere on the bed, near the bottom, and then he’s shaking out his arms, hopping in place. The sight alone is jarring, but he ignores it as best he can and turns toward his armor stand, hitting the release for his helmet and slipping it off over his head. It goes on the dresser next to the stand, and he works at his vambraces. They go with his gloves on the stand, along with his pauldrons, his thigh plates, and knee plates. He always leaves the chestplate for last, since it takes the most work, and he’s working at the clasps when sparks shoot over the back of his neck.

He turns just in time for Luke to step up, fingers plucking at the straps and buckles holding his armor in place with practiced ease. “Uh.” 

Brilliant. Show stopping. Luke’s face is amused by his eloquence, but he doesn’t say anything, merely hums and tugs at a particularly tough buckle. It comes undone with a little bit of coaxing, and then he raises his arms so Luke can slip the chestplate and flak vest up and off of him. It settles on the stand, green flecks of paint missing from the sandstorm, but Luke doesn’t move away. No- no, he steps up a bit closer, and his hands are shaking when he places them on Boba’s chest, smoothing up toward his collarbone and out over the slope of his shoulders. 

“Skywalker-”

“It’s Luke.” His palms are warm, practically radiating energy, and he’s a bit struck by it. "You're different- than what I was expecting."

"You're nothing like I was expecting." Is the immediate response, even if he curses himself for not holding them back. But Luke seems to appreciate the honesty, humming quietly and moving to cup the side of his neck. His thumb finds his pulse point, heart beating wildly, and something close to delight sparks in his eyes. 

"In a good way?"

"We'll see." That draws a laugh from Luke, his thumb smoothing over his pulse point and up his neck, settling just under his jaw. It tilts his head back, and the control, the lack of it should scare him. Luke holds enough power in his hands alone to end him here, but he doesn't. Instead, instead he dips down, lips brushing tentatively against Boba's. That's all it is, just a brush, enough to be intentional, but also little enough that it can be played off. 

His first thought is to wonder if Luke kisses Din this way. The second is to wonder why the hell he hasn’t done this sooner. He’s warm and eager and practically vibrating with leftover energy, and when he grabs a fistful of Luke’s shirt, dragging him closer, that earns him a small gasp. It warms him from his head to his toes, and he presses forward, this time intentional. It isn’t a brush this time, he makes sure of it, fingers tightening in Luke’s shirt while their lips slot together. 

He kisses him slow, exploratory, tilting his head and trying to see what he likes. He nips at Luke’s lower lip, just a gentle scrape of teeth, and feels the whine that builds in his chest. He traces the seam of Luke’s lips with his tongue, slow and soft, and Luke opens instantly, gasping quietly. He laps into his mouth, tasting him, and Luke’s hands can’t seem to sit still, fluttering over his shoulders like he’s not sure where to touch, how much to touch. In the end, his hands end up gripping his biceps as Boba walks him back until his shins hit the bed. 

He pushes him back further, hands dropping to Luke’s thighs to hoist him further up onto the bed, and he groans at the movement. He dips down to catch his lips in a kiss again, bracing a hand next to his hip, and Luke grabs at his ribs, tugging on his shirt. He feels flush with heat, almost sick with it, and Luke looks no better when he pulls back to get in between his thighs, nudging his knee wider as Luke stares up at him. 

“You aren’t high, are you?”

He blinks, those blue eyes owlishly large, lips red from his teeth and shiny with spit, but he grins anyway. The sight is obscenely attractive, and he tilts his head so he can get an answer faster. 

“Might be a little hopped up because of the fight, but not high.”

“So you’re doing this on purpose?”

Something flickers in Luke’s eyes, a moment of doubt, of vulnerability, before he nods. “Of course.”

“Good.” His hands find Luke’s thighs again, this time pulling him closer, until his legs are snug around his hips. “I don’t enjoy being played with.”

“I’m not.” He promises, and for some reason, maybe because he really isn’t, Boba believes him. So as a reward- for himself, for Luke, he bends down, pressing him back until he’s nearly laying horizontal and the only thing holding him up is the arm he throws around Boba’s neck. Their lips meet a bit harder this time, messier, and Luke’s fingers twitch against the back of his neck when he flicks his tongue over the roof of his mouth in a way that has Luke’s thighs going tight around him. 

Boba laughs into the kiss at the filth of it all, pulling back to trail kisses down the line of his jaw, down the column of his neck. He leaves a wet, openmouthed kiss against Luke’s pulse point, and he’s still there, worrying a mark into his skin when the door slides open with a beep. He expects Luke to shove him away, to stumble over some excuse for what they’re doing, but he doesn’t, too lost in the feeling of teeth on his neck to bother acknowledging the door. He doesn’t exactly pull back to do that either, but turns his head to glance behind him. Din lingers in the doorway, watching him with a little tilt to his head, and he arches a brow, placing a pointed kiss on Luke’s jaw. 

Din slips into the room and shuts the door without another thought. When he doesn’t do much else Luke stirs underneath him, blinking his eyes open and relaxing his grip. He slumps back into the bed slowly, stretching out and arching his back, and Boba nearly chases him down to bite a mark into the middle of his chest. Luckily, he has more self control, and he only pats at Luke’s hip, shifting back to leave him on the bed while he goes to help Din.

Din is leant back against the dresser when he turns around, helmet off and cheeks pink. “Didn’t have to stop on my account.” He says, and he’s never heard it used quite the way that Din wields it. Like a complaint, like seeing them stop is depriving him of some base pleasure. The thought that he approves is a relief- he hadn't exactly asked, neither of them had- or maybe Luke had, in the moments him and Din were alone. He hopes they talked about it.

“Pretty sure he’ll start complaining if you don’t come to bed too.” 

“Hm.” The soft noise is all the agreement he gets, but he’s already working at Din’s armor, stripping him out of his as easily as he would himself. The motions are muscle memory, ritualistic almost, and once he’s stripped of his beskar, down to his flight suit, he works away at that too. He may or may not stop to kiss him- once, just because it’s been a while, and then again because Din’s fingers find the back of his neck, pressing at the base of his skull, and he’s helpless as Din drags him in. Eventually, once Boba’s gotten him mostly out of his flight suit and down to his underclothes, Din murmurs. “Told you I could be convinced to share.” 

“This is all the convincing you need?” He teases, shrugging out of his shirt as Din’s hands shove the dark fabric up and away. It exposes the scars across his back, his chest, and he’s not embarrassed about them but- but it’s different somehow, knowing that Luke can see them. Din pets his hands over his chest, tracing one of the scars, and nips at his lower lip so he’ll focus back on the dark warmth of his eyes. 

“The sight of you and him is all the convincing I need.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He agrees, breathless. His hands wander, slipping to brush over the waistband of his pants. “You know how- how you like it when you come home and I’m already in bed?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s like that.” Din admits, voice soft as Boba’s lips find his neck, kissing at the sensitive spot just under his jaw that always makes him shudder. “It’s like that- seeing the two people I love the most together-”

There’s a soft tug on the both of them, cool but insistent, and Din chokes on a laugh. He frowns, turning, and finds Luke sat up on an elbow, crooking his finger as they scoot back another couple of inches. “You _can_ use your words, Skywalker.”

“You seemed a little busy.” 

**

“And what were you going to do? Levitate us onto the bed?”

“If you didn’t come over of your own free will? That was next.” Luke is grinning, eyes fever bright, and he finds himself laughing. Din seems all too used to it, shucking the rest of the way out of his flight suit and leaving it in a pile so that he can climb up into bed instead. Din dips down, pressing his forehead to Luke’s, and Luke arches up into the first touch against his stomach, as if even that could tip him over the edge. He finds himself stuck, staring at the pretty bow of his back, the way his eyes slip shut, lips parting, and the way that Din nips at his lower lip, just like he did earlier. 

“Hey.” Din’s voice is quiet, but it breaks him of his reverie. “He’s still pretty dressed.”

“Seems like a problem.” 

“Help me?” Luke’s voice jolts him- spurs him into action as he comes up to the side of the bed and grabs for one ankle. He works Luke’s boot off, holding just behind his knee, and moves to set it by the end of the bed. He repeats with the other one, careful not to let any potential sand dump into the bed. The last thing he wants is _more_ sand in the room than there needs to be. He reaches up, popping Luke’s belt, and doesn’t bother pulling it out of the loops, instead going for the button on his pants. 

Luke groans immediately when Boba’s hand brushes over him, hips rising, and he uses the distraction to tug his pants down his hips. They snag briefly at the knee, but his touch is gentle as he moves Luke the way he needs them, slipping his pants all the way off and then tossing them somewhere with Din’s flight suit. He _should_ take his time to fold them, to treat his things a bit nicer, but Luke’s underwear doesn’t leave much to the imagination and he’s almost drooling just at the sight of his thighs. 

“Help him with his shirt?” 

“In a minute.” That earns him a whine- from Luke or Din he doesn’t know- all he’s focused on is the pale expanse of Luke’s thighs, well muscled. He can feel them jump when he places his hands just above Luke’s knees, dragging his palms up slowly. He presses his thumb into the soft inner skin of his thighs, noting the way that Luke’s hips twitch, and then indulges himself. He leans down, hand slipping to hook under Luke’s knee and push his leg up and open, spreading him as he fits himself in between and places a slow, lingering kiss on his inner thigh. He kisses the spot once more before biting down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough that the pressure is undeniable. Luke’s hips buck, rising off the bed, and he uses a firm grip on Luke’s other thigh to shove him back down. 

“ _Oh!_ ” Luke says immediately, voice cracking, and he hides his smile against his thigh. His Jedi laughs at the feeling, and he closes his eyes when gloved fingers bump over the back of his head, smoothing over a scar lightly. His skin is warm under Boba’s lips, and he places a few wet, open mouthed kisses, idly nosing at the line of his underwear but straying no further. Luke makes another noise, something distinctly needy, but when he opens his eyes, glances up, Din’s got a nipple in his mouth, Luke’s other hand twisted around a fistful of Din’s hair. 

Their eyes lock for just a moment, brown against brown, and Din winks, sucking lightly as Luke’s chest arches into the sensation. How they got him out of his shirt without him noticing is a bit of a mystery, but he supposes he _was_ a little distracted. He bites down on Luke’s thigh again, digging in a bit harder to leave a bigger mark, and Luke whimpers underneath him. Luke’s fingers dig into the back of his skull, harder and harder, and he reaches up with his other hand, grabbing at his wrist and holding him still. 

“Don’t be greedy.”

He whines, high and broken in his throat, and Din laughs. “Say sorry.”

Boba watches Luke’s chest flush, rising and falling with uneven breaths, and they both lean back, taking any touch with them, and Luke almost growls. Finally he bites out a petulant little “Sorry.” 

Din dips to kiss him, something distinctly soft, and Luke relaxes into the bed. It’s interesting to see how they interact- how Din seems to be able to pull out the sweetest noises without seeming to try. He wonders how long it’ll take before he can do the same thing, before he can get Luke to hang off of every touch. Luke’s touch gentles against the back of his head, smoothing over a scar apologetically, and he kisses Luke’s thigh in thanks. Luke makes a pleased sound against Din’s lips, preening under the dual attention, and he glances up at Din from his spot between Luke’s legs. 

Din doesn’t seem to notice right away, but by the time he does Boba has already moved, grinning for a moment before he drags his tongue up the clothed length of Luke’s cock. Luke shouts, actually shouts, and Din blinks in shock as Boba huffs a laugh, hands pinning Luke’s hips to the bed. “You’re a menace.” Din chides, but it’s fond and affectionate and too warm to be actually scolding. 

“Is he always like this?” Luke mutters, panting and thighs twitching when Boba tugs at his underwear. The jedi goes to say something else, ask something maybe, but his breath chokes off in his throat when Boba kisses at the head, tongue flicking out to taste him. He pulls back for a moment to admire him, the flushed red of his skin, the way his cock twitches when Boba takes him in hand and strokes him once from root to tip. He admires the scores of white-pink across his chest, twisting and fanning out in delicate spiderwebs, branching off from one central point on his chest and side. Admires it for a moment before he realizes what they are, and then tucks that information in the back of his mind. To ask about when he’s _not_ about to be very, very busy. “Boba?”

Luke murmurs, fingers tapping lightly at the back of his skull, drawing his attention. He kisses the head again, apologizing, and Luke sucks in a breath. Arousal pounds against the base of his skull at his name on Luke’s lips, scratchy and needy. “Tell me if it’s too much.” 

He hears more than he sees Luke scoff, and he watches eagerly, wrapping his lips around the head and sucking. Luke’s hand scrabbles at his shoulder, lips parting in surprise, and his grip in Din’s hair goes white knuckled, Din shuddering and leaning into the touch. Swirling his tongue around the head, flicking just under it, has Luke’s thigh pressing in on either side of his head, hips shifting under his grip. “Ah- mm, how could that be too m-ah-uch?”

Din chuckles, murmuring something to Luke, but he isn’t focusing much on their words anymore. It’s much easier to focus on the weight, the taste of Luke on his tongue, on taking more of him in and finding out what he likes the best. He bobs his head slowly, getting used to the feeling of his jaw stretching, all the while Luke whines and wiggles underneath him. He hears his name again, high and broken, and he huffs out a hot breath through his nose as his own neglected cock throbs. But he can wait- he can be patient, and he’s all too happy to look up and see Luke’s back arching. 

He shifts, trying to get more comfortable, and Luke slips deeper into his mouth, bumping the back of his throat. Luke moans, breathy and punched out, and he maneuvers one of Luke’s thighs up and onto his shoulder. The other he allows Luke to plant in the bed, heel digging into the sheets. Din recognises the pose, the bracing, and his voice is rough when he murmurs, glancing down at Boba the whole time. 

“Go ahead, Luke.” Said man makes an inarticulate noise, a question, and Din dips to kiss his cheek before murmuring quietly in his ear. “He wants you to fuck his mouth.”

“Oh- oh, _please_?” In response, or maybe retaliation for taking so long he takes him deeper, tongue pressed against the vein on the bottom. Luke throbs in his mouth, gasping, and he doesn't have hair for Luke to grab onto, but he doesn’t seem to care, hand dropping to grab the sheets instead. He almost misses the contact, but Luke gives an experimental thrust up into his mouth and he loses his train of thought pretty quickly after that. “Such a wet mouth-”

He shivers at the praise, hips pressing down, and he has to actively focus on not choking at the sudden brush of sensation. It’s almost too much, and he has to decide which sensation he’s going to let drive him wild. Luke rocking up into his mouth, whining his name and clinging to the sheets wins out. He starts out slow and shallow, as if afraid to hurt him, but his rhythm picks up when he gets no complaint from Boba. His hands fall away from Luke’s hips completely, giving him free reign, and Luke’s hand flies from the sheets to the back of his head again, not forcing him down but merely holding on. 

He only pulls out enough to let Boba breathe, too desperate to tease himself, and he enjoys seeing Luke like this. Fuck, he _loves_ seeing Luke like this, watching the way his stomach flexes as he thrusts up into his mouth, pressing into his throat. He can feel spit on his chin, on Luke, but Luke seems completely oblivious to it, and he’s all too happy to swallow down around him when Luke presses up and stays there, overwhelmed. Luke shifts, going up on a shaky elbow, and Din slips behind him to support him as he stares down, blue eyes bright. The fever pitch of his look has calmed some, as if some excess energy has been shed, and he smiles fondly, entirely too sappy. 

It’s almost enough to have him moving on his own, but Luke slips his hand down, brushing his thumb over the corner of his mouth, and he leans into the touch unbidden. “In your mouth?”

He hollows his cheeks in response.

Luke swears, eyelids fluttering, and flops back against Din’s chest, panting as he works back into his rhythm. It doesn’t take long for his breathing to go wonky, his hips to stutter, and he takes great, great pride in Luke’s undoing. He comes with a cry of Boba’s name, one hand on Boba’s head, the other clutching at Din’s forearm, and Boba works him through it. He pulls back, wanting to taste, and sucks on the head, swirling his tongue around until Luke is protesting, hips twitching backwards. He stays there a few seconds more, until Luke is squirming and begging, and only then does he pull off, placing a few sloppy kisses on Luke’s thigh and laying his head to rest. 

He feels happy and sated and a little sleepy, if he’s being honest, and he protests when Luke starts pawing at him. “Get _up_ here.” 

**

Grumbling, he does as he’s told, dragging himself up the length of Luke’s body until he can flop down, half propped up, half laying on him. Luke wheezes a bit at the weight, but his thighs come up around his ribs, and he doesn’t have any space to move away as Luke cups his cheek and draws him into a kiss. It’s softer, less heated than their kisses before, and he relaxes into it slowly, learning the way that their lips fit together when they aren’t in a hurry. It’s… Nice. Much nicer than he expects. 

Nice enough that he forgets his own pressing need, and by the time Luke tries to paw at him again he bats his hands away. Luke whines, protesting, but Boba presses their lips together again and then sits back a bit. 

“Another night.” 

“It can’t just be _me_ -”

“Sure it can. You were the one who needed it most.” Luke scowls, eyes narrowed, but the look doesn’t do anything and he chucks him lightly under the chin as he moves to go get a washcloth. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you bouncing off the walls.” 

“It was the adrenaline!” He calls, but Boba isn’t listening much, and doesn’t reply until he comes back. 

“It’s a force thing, isn’t it?” He’s not afraid to ask, but he keeps his eyes down, focusing on wiping spit off of Luke so that he won’t wake up _too_ weirdly sticky. It gives him a chance to deny, or not answer at all, but Luke huffs out a soft sound and uses a finger to make him look up. 

“How did you know?”

“Adrenaline doesn’t leave you keyed up like that. It makes you crash.”

“Oh, I’m going to.” Luke laughs when he raises a brow, and Din is smiling over his shoulder, already half asleep and content just to let them talk. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?”

Luke scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he’s being serious, and Luke sighs. “It’s- a little weird.”

“I already knew you were weird.” He points out, smiling when Luke scowls and playfully shoves at his shoulder. “C’mon, up under the covers.”

“I’m staying?”

He pins his Jedi- when did it become his? With a withering look, nudging Din until he gets moving. He flops onto the side closest to the window, slipping under the blankets, and Luke hesitates for a moment before taking the middle of the bed. Once he’s settled Boba kills the lights and crosses the room back to the bed, operating with only the moonlight coming in through the window. The sheets are soft over his skin, and his scars only faintly ache when he slots himself against Luke’s side. 

“Why wouldn’t you stay?”

Luke is quiet for a while, and at some point he thinks his Jedi has fallen asleep, but he speaks once Din’s breathing has evened out in sleep. “I didn’t know if this was for him.”

The vulnerability, the fear in his voice breaks Boba’s heart. He finds himself pressing closer, laying kisses over any part of Luke he can reach- his collarbone, the slope of his shoulder, the column of his neck. He keeps going until Luke is giggling, and only then does he brush his lips over Luke’s ear, whispering. “It was for you. And me.” 

\--

When he wakes up, he forgets most of last night at first. But when his jaw twinges, when he goes to talk and all that comes out is a hoarse croak, all those memories come rushing back. Luke plastered to his side, cheek resting on his chest helps too, and he stares at him in the early morning light. This way, sun cascading across the curve of his spine, hair the color of honey, he finds that he’s the prettiest he’s ever seen him. He looks more like the kid that he used to be, innocent and too naive to be navigating the galaxy. 

But he isn’t that kid anymore, and Boba isn’t anything like he was either. Whether he likes it or not, his time in the sarlacc has changed him. Not just physically, but… in every way that he could think of. His skin itched faster, his scars ached, and sometimes talking was too painful to really bear. All those physical things he could deal with: he was used to pain, to discomfort. He’d done a lot feeling much worse than he did now. It was everything else that unsettled him. The way that dark, enclosed places made his skin crawl, made his heart kick up until he felt like he was choking on each beat. The way that if something smelled too sharp, too much like acid his stomach heaved. 

Alcohol was out for months before he managed to tamp down on that particular instinct. Coming to Tatooine, taking the syndicate over, had seemed like taking control. He’d stripped down and sold the old pleasure barge as soon as he took over, and used the credits to fund his first few ventures. After, once he had settled some, he’d hired as many people as he could to scrub the place from top to bottom, and aired it out, brightened it as much as he could with recessed lights and small open windows. 

His room was as open as he could make it- there was a huge window to let in light, his ceilings were as high as he could make them, and it was usually only him. Until Din had come back, looking for a job. For a friend. And their coming together after that, that had just felt right. He’d been disoriented, without a true purpose or someone to anchor to since he’d crawled his way out of the pit, half dead and reeking of sarlacc guts. Din felt a bit like home- different, in the way he upheld his Creed, but the same in everything else. In the way he fought, the way they worked together on missions. 

He felt like he had always been by his side, and when Din had removed his helmet the first time, voluntarily and because he wanted to, kissing him had felt right then too. 

It feels right now, when Din slips out of bed and dresses for the day. He murmurs something about helping Fennec with their captive, but he knows it’s because he’s restless. Not used to being in one place. It feels right when Din dips down to kiss him, and then leaves a kiss among Luke’s golden hair, smiling when the Jedi snuggles in a bit closer and sighs. 

He’s not going to get back to bed, and he considers going to help as well, but three is a crowd in an interrogation, and his bed is more than welcoming. After yesterday, he thinks that they’ve all earned a day in bed. Most of all Luke, who’s only just now stirring. He watches him in the morning light, stretching his arms and legs, arching his back and groaning happily when his joints pop. He relaxes back against Boba’s side, eyes still closed, and he brushes his finger over a curling tendril of scar tissue on Luke's neck. 

He follows the tendril down, over his shoulder and breaking off around his collarbone. He chooses a new branch, following that, and following the next until he gets to the dense webbing on Luke’s left pec, close to his ribs. Electrical damage. Enough to knock out a dewback, if the traumatic scarring is anything to go by. He’s pondering just how he survived, how he even got shocked so badly in the first place with that much power when Luke’s lips find the soft spot right behind his ear, placing a warm, fond kiss there. 

“Good morning.” Luke murmurs, arching up into his touches and sighing when Boba smooths a hand down his side. 

“Sleep okay?”

Luke hums, nodding, and distracts himself with leaving kisses along the scar that curls behind his ear and over his cheek. The one that had hurt, just yesterday, that Luke had soothed without a thought. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Are these…” He hesitates, as if scared of the answer, and Boba abruptly knows what he’s going to ask. 

“Yes.” Luke deflates against his side, slumping a bit, and this time when he kisses one of the scars, it feels like an apology. And he doesn’t stop. He seeks out the next scar, and the next, working his way down until Boba is reeling from the sudden influx of sensation. “Luke.”

“Hmm?”

“Come up here.” Luke does as he’s told, moving until he’s face to face with Boba. Boba turns on his side, taking his hand and slotting their fingers together. He rests their hands between them on the bed, looking him over for a moment before he sighs. “They aren’t your fault.”

“They kind of are.” He argues, and yeah, yeah they might be, but- “We didn’t mean to launch you into that pit. Well- I didn’t at least.”

“Too noble for your own good. _I_ would have launched me into the sarlacc.” 

Luke laughs, shaking his head, and his eyes are sad, shadowed. “We didn’t expect you to survive, when your jetpack went haywire.”

“I didn’t either.” The thought is uncomfortable- his heart, thudding in his ears, the mouth of the sarlacc closing around him. The stench of stomach acid, bones across from him, nearly picked clean and semi translucent. 

“I’m glad you did.” He blinks, letting the image slip away from him, and when he looks at him, Luke’s eyes are earnest, open. 

“Is that what you thought when you first saw me?”

Luke’s lips twist in something between a grimace and a smile, and he shakes his head. “It wasn’t that flattering.” 

He laughs at that- he remembers Luke seeing him again for the first time, when Luke had dropped Grogu off to see Din and realized where he was. Who stood next to him. He’s fairly certain that Luke had looked ready to kill him then, eyes ablaze and nostrils flared. Luke watches him for a while, resting his head on his other arm, and he looks ready to fall back asleep. 

“What about you?” Luke blinks, opening his eyes briefly before they slip closed again. “Your scars.” 

“Oh. The lightning.”

“Yeah.” Luke shifts, bringing their hands up to kiss the tips of Boba’s fingers. “You don’t have to.”

“It’s okay.” Is it? He can feel Luke’s fingers trembling, can see the fine tremor that rocks his shoulders. 

“Hey. _Hey_.” He pulls his hand back to draw Luke up against him instead, wrapping an arm tight over his ribs and smoothing his hand between Luke’s shoulder blades. “Don’t let me make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re _not_.”

“You’re shaking.” 

Luke laughs wetly, hiding his face in Boba’s neck and refusing to come out. “I don’t know how you do it. Talk about them.” 

“I hardly said anything. You already knew.”

Luke pauses at that, as if he hadn’t considered that. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“You don’t owe me your story.”

“No, but I want to give it. I just- need a second." He takes a moment just to breathe, until he's not shaking quite so hard and he can pull away enough that Boba can see his face. "How much do you know about the Empire's fall?"

"Just what I've read. There was a battle on Endor, and the emperor died on the second Death Star."

"Right."

The way that Luke agrees, like he's humoring him, casts a sudden doubt on him. He was in the sarlacc when the Empire fell, and the last thing he'd cared about was current events. Not when his skin had hurt so much he could hardly breathe. "Is that… not what happened?"

"That's the public story." Luke says, turning to sit up. Boba considers going with him, but he seems like he needs the distance, and he watches as Luke's knees come up to press against his chest. To protect it. He turns to look at Boba though, tears glimmering in his lashes already. "In order to get on the Death Star and cause its destruction, I had to get captured. By the Emperor."

"Oh."

"He wanted me to turn to the Dark side, like Vader had. Only he hadn't had years to implant memories and visions in my head, so he tried to use my anger. When that didn't work… He threatened Leia. And I- I'm not proud of what I did on that ship. He made Vader and I fight- over and over, hours on end while he talked."

"You went toe to toe with Vader?" He has to admit, even he wouldn't have done it more than once. But he knows that Luke fought him more than once. He knows, based on information down the grapevine, that that's how Luke lost his hand. 

"I beat him. I was so- _so_ angry, but he- he was like me. He'd had destiny thrust upon him, only he turned. I didn't. And when even that failed, when I told him it would never work he- it's called force lightning. Only true Sith can use it, and only very powerful ones."

"And he used it on you."

"It was only a short time- a minute, two? But I could feel my blood vessels bursting, filling my mouth, could feel my heart stuttering in my chest- all my muscles seized, my lungs refused to fill all the way, and I couldn't do anything other than lay there."

"Were you scared?"

It's a stupid question, stupid indeed, but Luke nods, dashing away a tear that escapes as he stares down at him. "Terrified. I'm still scared whenever I see a stun stick. Din's rifle terrified me for months when I first met him."

"Did you ever tell him?"

"... Eventually."

"Luke." His voice is disapproving, a frown on his face, but Luke glares down at him.

"Don't chide me, Boba Fett. Do you tell people you hate the dark?"

"How did you-"

Luke's expression softens, anger washed away, and he turns his head to kiss Luke's fingers when he reaches to touch his cheek. "You aren't the only observant one. It's just- not something we talk about."

"Maybe we should." Maybe, if he can talk about what happened in the sarlacc, then he won't feel so trapped, so surrounded everytime he takes a shower, or sits in the cockpit of his own ship. Luke looks at him, thoughtful, and he slowly unfurls, laying back down beside him, scooting close enough that they can tangle their legs together. 

"Maybe." He agrees, and Boba doesn't manage to get another word in edgewise before Luke is asleep again. He glances over at the sunlight, now very much past midmorning, and then back down at Luke. Well. At least he doesn't have any immediate plans. 

He lays with Luke for another couple of hours before he's too restless to stay, and he eases out from under him. He rolls over onto his back, spreads out on the bed, and promptly gathers the blankets up around him as much as possible. Blanket hog indeed. 

He takes his time washing up, and glances at his armor. He _should_ patch it up, paint the worst of the spots and clean the rest of it. But that would take him too long, and he needs to make the rounds, call a couple of people and see what Fennec has managed to drag up. So he goes through the routine of strapping into his armor, letting the weight settle across his shoulders, his hips. Slips his blaster back into the holster at his hip and gives one last look toward Luke asleep on the bed before heading out. 

He hunts down something to drink first, throat just a _little_ rough still. Then, he calls two of his people, informants who have been listening low to the ground for him. Neither of them have anything particularly useful, so he's banking on whatever their captive has in terms of knowledge. He heads down deeper into the palace, and here is where the lights matter most. They're almost obnoxiously bright, disorienting, but he wants it that way, and his stomach only mildly twists as he descends deeper and deeper. 

He follows the sounds of crying, of low voices, and finds Din and Fennec leant against the far wall, heads bowed toward each other while the zabrak man sits crumpled on the ground.

"Anything?"

"Some useful info. Nothing on the Hutts. Either he's lying, or they're waiting to make their move." 

"He broke that fast?"

"He knows who comes next if we can't get anything from him." Fennec is grinning at that, positively delighted, and he glances over at Din. Din's arms are crossed tight, and though he's relaxed, he can tell there's an edge to him. Fennec, on the other hand, is completely relaxed, shit eating grin on her face as she raises an eyebrow and asks, "He still asleep?"

"Who?"

"Your Jedi." 

Ignoring the very intentional play on words he nods, looking over at the zabrak slowly stirring on the floor. "He needs it."

"Surprised he woke up at all." Din murmurs, and that _does_ surprise him. Why wouldn't he wake up? Din notices the question in his stare, and he turns his head toward Fennec, jerking his head back toward the cells. "Put him back. We'll have Luke come down later to talk to him."

The zabrak gives a wordless noise of protest, jaw too swollen to talk, but Fennec is already hauling him to his feet and dragging him back toward his cell. All he leaves behind is a dark smear of blood, shining in the artificial lights. He's going to have to have someone come down to scrub the stain out. Once he's gone, tucked away, Din seems to relax. Bounty hunting is one thing, he knows, but torturing, getting information? Din doesn't seem used to it. It isn't honorable, but it is necessary. 

"He sleeps a lot?"

"No. Opposite actually, but when he uses the Force like he did yesterday, it takes a toll." 

"Does it hurt him?"

"He won't tell me. But I remember the kid after using it, dead asleep and feverish."

"Huh." It's not something he thinks he's ever thought about. Before Luke, before the kid, his only interactions with a force user was Vader, and he had seemed- limitless. Granted, he'd been careful not to see that saber of his light up, or back talk him to the point of getting choked. So maybe even Vader was that way. 

"What are you going to do?"

"About?" There are… at least two answers that Din might be looking for, and when he jerks his head toward the cells, beskar gleaming, he feels his shoulders slump. 

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"We don't have anything on the Hutts, and if they're content to wait, so am I."

"So we're just… not going to do anything." 

The thought displeases him- and he sympathizes, he does. But sometimes the hunt grows that much sweeter by waiting. Waiting, and watching instead. 

"Not today." Din huffs, shaking his head, and he tilts his head. "Have you eaten?"

"... No." 

Boba clicks his tongue- leave it to Din to interrogate on an empty stomach. Might be easier that way, honestly. 

"Let's get something to eat. Think Skywalker will wake up to eat?"

"Doubt it."

"Mh." 

They raid the kitchen, though he can hardly call it raiding when Mink is waiting for them. The togruta takes one look at them, eyes narrowed, and shoves a huge platter into Boba's arms, overflowing with enough food for at _least_ six people. There's bantha stew, thin flat bread, and some spicy kind of dip that he still hadn't been able to name but craves sometimes when he's bent over his worktable, puzzling out a new piece of machinery. Two pitchers are pressed into Din's hands much gentler, and Mink grins, patting his vambrace in a fond gesture. Din hums happily and inclines his head- leave it to Din to get in good with the kitchen. 

They haul it back to the room, Din clearing a space on the cluttered desk in the corner so Boba can set their spoils down. He tries not to get distracted with the way that Luke looks, hair a tangled mess, curled up on his side clutching a pillow. But it's too easy‐ the longer he looks the more he notices- a faint white scar edging along his jaw, the hints of a blaster shot on his left shoulder. They're familiar, things he's seen on Din, on himself a dozen times. Somehow in his rush, in Luke's own frantic energy, he hadn't noticed the little scars. Only the huge expanse of lightning etched forever into his skin. 

Lips on his temple break him from his thoughts, and he blinks up, smiling at the sight. Din's eyes are warm, always so damn vulnerable- they remind him of freshly tilled earth- dark with flecks of lighter tones, always catching the light in some new way. When the helmet is off, that is. He finds himself lost in them just as easily as he gets lost in the blue of Luke's: content just to look, to watch the light turn his eyes almost golden for a second before he moves and the effect is lost. 

"See if he'll wake for you."

"Why me?"

"You were good at it last time." Din's lips are curled in a teasing smile, and Boba scowls. Still, he pads over to the bed, reaching out.

"Hey." Luke doesn't so much as stir, and he touches his shoulder lightly. He touches his shoulder, and Luke's sleeping face is the last thing he sees for a blurry moment. A hand shoots up, grabs his wrist, and his arm is very nearly wrenched nearly out of its socket as he's flipped up and over, hitting the bed hard and nearly careening over the other edge as Luke swings up and sits astride his hips. One hand braces against his chest, glove hand drawing back, and he just has enough time to catch his wrist, gritting his teeth at the power in his arms and bite out a sharp, "Luke!"

His Jedi freezes, panic slipping from his eyes, and his blinks, once, twice, three times before he gasps. "Oh- oh I'm sorry I didn't mean to-"

" _You're_ waking him up next time, Djarin." He snaps toward his partner, scowling at the way he's laughing. Luke looks guilty as all get out, eyes wide and lower lip trembling, and Boba grabs at his thighs to keep him from slipping away. "Stay."

"I could've-"

"You won't."

Luke's lips twitch, fighting a smile, and he mutters a quiet, "I won't?"

"You won't." He agrees, and Luke laughs, weak and relieved before he stoops to press their lips together. His hands slide further up Luke's thighs mindlessly, finding his hips instead, and his Jedi sighs, lips parting and tongue tracing over Boba's lower lip. His hands clamp down on Luke's hips at the feeling, and he draws back, drinking in the way that Luke's cheeks have flushed. "Hungry?" 

Luke's eyes go half lidded, dark, and he nods slowly. "Mhm."

"Then get up, before Din gets to all the stew." 

The scandalized look on Luke's face when he realizes Boba was being literal is heavenly, and he laughs, lifting Luke up and off his lap and depositing him back on the bed. Slipping from Luke's side, he pinches at Din's ribs in reprimand when he sees that Din has in fact started eating without them; he gathers two bowls of stew and a couple flatbread before returning to the bed, juggling them best he can. Luke is still where he left him, wide eyed and incredulous, and he chuckles as he holds out one of the bowls. 

"Here."

"You're awful." he accuses, eyes narrowing, but Boba only snorts, pressing the bowl into Luke's hands. 

"You'll survive. Eat."

"I'm not hungry." Boba hums, unconvinced, and nudges Luke over a bit so he can sit on the bed. _He's_ hungry, so even if Luke is going to pout next to him he might as well dig in. The stew is hearty and full of vegetables, and the meat is tender enough to almost fall apart in his mouth. It's delicious, and he gets a couple bites in before he notices Luke going for his own bowl. He seems to either not feel or not care that it's still steaming- he eats like it's his last meal, and he gets Luke another two bowls _and_ two more flatbread before his eating finally slows. 

"Not hungry, huh?"

Luke mumbles something that sounds distinctly like 'shut up' around a mouthful of flatbread, and it's Din who laughs this time. He comes over with a tall glass of blue milk, pressing it into Luke's hands and smiling at the way his face lights up. He's nudged over by Din, which moves Luke over again, and they settle, pauldrons brushing as they go in on the dip. Boba swipes some on a finger, offering it to Luke, and he doesn't hesitate, lapping it off his finger with a very unnecessary flick of the tongue. 

It's meant to be sexy, probably, but Luke's face screws up, cheeks and chest flushing, and he hides a cough as best he can as he takes a huge sip of his milk. Din pipes up beside him, chewing on a piece of flatbread heaped with dip. "It's spicy."

Luke's answering glare is almost as hot as the dip. 

He drains his glass of milk twice before he seems to be able to settle, and when Boba offers him a bite he makes a face and flops back on the bed. He only shrugs and finishes off the dip with Din, getting up to take care of the tray. Din offers to help, half rising from the bed, but he waves him off, hoisting the tray a bit higher and slipping out the door. He finds his mind drifting while he walks, circling the sea questions over and over again.

Did they talk about it? _Should_ they talk about it? 

They should talk about it, because he doesnt know what Luke is expecting, what Din is expecting, and he doesn't want to fuck this up. There are a lot of things in his life that he's fucked up, and he doesn't know what he'll do if this is one of them. 

Mink looks at him appraisingly when he dumps their dishes, leaning a hip against the counter and wiping her hands on her apron.

"Things have been different 'round here since that other mando showed up."

"Your boss is better, for one." He doesn't get the laugh that he expects, though her lips quirk. 

"I mean it. The mando is good for you."

"He is." Of that he's in complete agreement- Din is probably one of the best people he knows. That might not be saying much, since they share the same line of work and he's _definitely_ done bad things, but… He has honor. A Creed that he follows, where Boba has nothing more than his father's teaching and armor to guide him. 

"That Jedi that's been skulkin 'round is too."

"I don't know-"

Mink's brows raise, and he finds himself scolded without her ever saying a word. "Now I know you don't take me for a fool. Y'all have history. It's written all over his face."

"His face?"

"In those eyes. He looks at you like he's a kicked puppy and you just refuse to pet him." 

"He does?" She pins him with an exasperated look, and he only frowns in response.

“You go on back then. No use dallying here.” 

That’s as much a dismissal than anything, and he knows if he stays he’s going to end up working in the kitchens until his hands are raw. Once, when he’d first come back, had nothing else to do, he’d peeled vegetables and butchered meat until he couldn’t feel his fingers, just to shut his mind up. Now- now he knows better, and he makes a break for it at her insistence, back toward his room. Where Din and Luke and a conversation he’s dreading is waiting. 

Even without his helmet, he hears them long before he gets to the room. The wing is deserted, reserved for his own wandering, and his footsteps are loud, heartbeat thunderous. Their voices rise above it all, Din’s gentle, Luke’s bright and overflowing.

“- was nice.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Do you think he’d want to?” Hope. There’s hope in his voice, and he hesitates, feet turning to lead right outside the door. A pause, a laugh from Din. The sound of lips meeting, a soft gasp. “I want him to want to.”

“Is that _all_ you want?” Din is teasing, but there’s a genuine question hidden in those words- hidden, but easily uncovered when Luke sighs. The sheets shuffle, there’s the sound of cloth moving, and then the door is sliding open. It’s opening and he doesn’t know what to do with his body- it won’t move, no matter how hard he tries, and he tries. 

Luke stands backlit by the sun, head tilted, shrouded by his black cloak. His lips are beautiful as he speaks. As he locks eyes, never wavering, never shying away. “A Jedi does not covet.”

The phrase shatters his heart, but Luke’s lips are quirking, teeth bared in a feral, pleased grin, and three words patch the ugly bleeding.

“But I do.” 

Luke reaches a hand out, an offering, and he doesn’t hesitate anymore, light and fire flowing through his veins. His Jedi drags him into the room, door sliding shut behind them with a flick of his eyes. Not even a twitch of his fingers, a wave of the hand- just those eyes, brimming with something ancient, something big. Something both Luke and not. This time when he looks, he sees what Mink means. His eyes are wide, lips trembling, and he really does look like some scolded animal, waiting for the hand that feeds him to strike back for him having bitten.

Reaching with the hand that Luke isn’t clutching, he brushes gloves fingers over Luke’s jaw, tracing the scar he saw earlier. “I want to. Now, and later, and even after that.”

\--

They share the night together- they’ve hardly been apart for more than a couple of hours since Luke touched down on Tatooine, but it still leaves something aching in his chest to watch them go. Din and Luke leave together- Luke, to go back to Grogu, and his school. Din, to join him and see his son.

Neither of them invite him to come along, and that’s fine. That’s fine.

It’s fine- he doesn't need them to function, to feel like a person. He doesn’t need them, but when he wakes up, drenched in sweat and choking on breaths, he wishes he had them. When he gets out of the shower, hiding the shaking of his hands from himself and escaping into the open air of his room, he wants them. He reminisces about Din’s hands while rubbing lotion into his scars- he was always more gentle, more methodical. Like each scar was something to be worshipped, not a mark of his failure. 

Sometimes, when his scars have him on pins and needles, each brush of fabric agony against him, he thinks of Luke. He thinks of that hand, reaching out to him. The way he’d looked, seen his discomfort, and helped, even when they were only uneasy allies. It doesn’t help, not really, but thinking about that cold brush, the way his skin had tingled afterward, eases something tight within his chest. 

He watches the binary suns rise each morning through his window, laying in the middle of a huge bed that only feels bigger and bigger with each day that they’re gone. 

He’s a sap- he’s gone soft, in getting old. He’s gone soft, and for some reason that doesn’t scare him. He’d rather be soft, be loved, than be what he was before. Jaded and angry and hell bent on ruining the world around him. 

\--

He hasn’t left Tatooine in months.

Fennec is good company when she isn’t gone, and he holds some semblance of court every day. But even sitting on his throne, people milling and mixing together, he’s alone. He’s never minded solitude- it was a way to keep himself safe. After Jango, after that stint in prison- after everything. But solitude has a way of being corrupted when left truly alone for too long. When all he has to talk to is the jellied bones in a sarlacc pit, or a cook who pitied him with each visit to the kitchen to work himself to the bone.

He’s staring at the grate over the rancor pit, face carefully twisted in boredom and wondering just how much effort it would be to fill it up, cover it completely when the crowd around him stops. His eyes snap up instantly at the silence, the lack of movement. 

Not a complete lack- just partial. The crowd is still moving, slowly, parting around a mass of black energy. Around a man, broad shouldered and shrouded. He slips through the crowd with easy, fluid steps, standing directly on top of the gate to the rancor pit, balancing on the wide bars as if his leg couldn’t go through them. His hood obscures his face, casting his jaw into a sharp line, but he knows him. 

His heart knows before his brain can even catch up, ratcheting up until he’s almost choking on the beat. 

His Jedi stands there, hands folded, and he sees the barest curve of his lip. Feels the echo of his voice ricochet in his bones as he speaks. “Get out.”

Like rabbits, the people in the room run to escape the predator standing in their midst. To get away from the wolf, lingering amongst them with sharp teeth and even sharper eyes. Eyes that he’s dreamt of, thought of for days. Weeks. Months. 

He prowls forward with deadly calm, purposeful intent, and to anyone who lingers, to anyone who thinks of stepping in, Luke’s a hunter who’s found his prey. He’s not worth saving- gone completely out of anyone’s reach. 

But Boba isn’t trying to be in anyone’s reach except for his. The hood falls back with a sweep of a hand, and he’s just as bright, just as blue as he remembers. More, even, but it's hard to tell- the brown of Tatooine has a way of sucking color away. “Skywalker.”

“Fett.” 

He’s close enough to touch, to reach out to, and he wants to do so. He leans forward to do so, leather of his gloves creaking as he grabs at the edge of his throne to stand. Luke’s hands come up, picking at the clasp on his cloak- a mudhorn- a _beskar_ mudhorn- _he_ doesn't have one- and he stares as the cloak falls away, revealing the slimmer line of his shoulders, the sharp angle of his hips. 

It falls to a heap on the floor, beskar clanging, but he’s unable to move, stuck in place as Luke places one knee on the seat of his throne, nudging his thigh. A hand rests on the armrest, just outside the length of his arm. His other leg comes up, muscles in his thighs bunching, knee settling on the outside of his other thigh. 

“You’re here.” 

He can’t breathe; he can’t _breathe_ with the warmth of him, the pure power radiating from him. He can’t breathe, unable to parse that he’s actually here, but Luke settles in his lap, thighs spread wide, and he’s never thought that someone belongs on a throne as much as Luke does. 

He leans up at the same time that Luke dips downward, swaying toward him as if stuck in gravity. He’s heavy and warm in his lap and when he brings a hand up, burying it in Luke’s hair, he’s _here_. Their foreheads bump together with more force than necessary, but neither of them pull away, and his fingers tighten in Luke’s hair as a breath shudders through him. 

“Did you miss me?” Luke grins, teasing, and he huffs out a breath.

“Not a bit.”

Luke’s smile softens, and he closes his eyes to keep his head from spinning at how close they are. “Liar.”

\--

Luke stays for a week before he leaves again. He leaves, but his marks linger for days after. His promise, words whispered to him in the heat of their shared pleasure, echo in his head once he's alone again. 

_No force in the universe could keep me from you._

He wants to believe it. He wants to believe that no matter what, Luke will find his way back. To him, to Tatooine. To a place he wonders if Luke can call home. 

\-- 

Din visits him two weeks after Luke does. His entrance is much more muted, not nearly as showy. He doesn't even announce himself- Boba walks into his room, stripped of his armor and hands raw from washing dishes, and freezes at the sight of bare skin, of the graceful curve of his spine as he lays in bed. 

His face is peaceful in sleep, silver coloring his temples and peppered in his facial hair. He doesn't know whether it's stress or lack of sleep or merely age, but he strips himself down to his underwear and climbs into bed. He climbs into bed, hand following the bumps of Din's spine, and he kisses that silver streaked temple. He kisses it as many times as he can before Din stirs, grumbling halfheartedly and rolling to open himself up to Boba. 

Affection burns in his chest with the knowledge that Din can allow himself to relax enough in his room to actually sleep. To not snap awake when the door opens. 

He doesn't stop his assault of kisses when Din rolls onto his back. He trails kisses over Din's cheeks, the slope of his nose, his eyelids, the corners of his mouth. Din twitches and sighs at each touch, breathing ragged at the sensation. He knows this is a lot- he knows logically that he should back off, but he's _missed_ him, and when he tries to pull back Din drags him down to press their foreheads together. 

"When did you get in?"

"Hour or so ago?"

"Why didn't you get me?"

"Mink said you needed it. The work." 

Leave it to Mink to meddle. Still, she was right. Now that he's finally done, slowing down for the night, he isn't as hopped up as he would normally be. He doesn't feel the need to stay up hunched at his desk, or in the training room sparring with no one until he can hardly hold his _gaderffii_ stick in both hands. Instead of feeling pent up he feels weary, tired in the very marrow of his bones. He slips under the sheets properly to lay on his side by Din, eyes sweeping over the length of him. He's a familiar sight, well muscled and honed toward fighting. Toward protecting himself and those he loves. 

In his own fatigue he almost doesn't notice the mudhorn etched onto the front of Din's shoulder. Right in the same place his pauldron would be. It's new, though there isn't any scabbing, and when he touches the thin lines, traces over the splash of red that goes behind the tattoo, Din shivers. 

"When did you get this?"

"When I went to Coruscant." The unspoken _with Luke_ hangs in the air between them, and he's careful not to let his expression sour. He leans down, placing a kiss on the graceful curve of the horn. Din's fingertips touch his cheek, tracing his scar, and he twists away from the touch, brow pinching. His skin prickles uneasily at the touch, on the verge of hurting but not quite diving over that edge. He's hypersensitive in the worst of ways, and he grits his teeth, laying down and opening his arm for Din. Din hesitates- he doesn't do it often, but he does it now, staring at Boba, brows furrowed. 

"What?"

"You're having a bad night, aren't you?"

"It's fine."

"Boba-"

"I get to see you once every few months." His voice is quiet, heated. " _Fuck_ my bad day. Come here."

Din watches him, unsure, and he grabs at Din's shoulder, guiding him until he turns around, Din pressing his back to Boba's chest. This way, they have skin to skin contact, and though it doesn't exactly feel _good_ , he's safe from Din's scruff. That would truly be enough to set him off. It's better than finally having Din here and having to have him sleep on the other side of the bed. 

They settle down, and it isn't long until Din's breathing evens out. If he was coming from Coruscant then there's no way he's used to Tatooine's day and night cycles. No way he can really stay awake, not when sleeping in hyperspace leaves him either refreshed or deliriously tired when he wakes up. He's all too used to what Din experiences by hopping between worlds. His only difference is that he hasn't done it in months. Not since he took over the syndicate.

Din rolls at some point, shifting so that he's on his back, awkwardly pressed to Boba's side. Like this, with the light from the moon he can see Din's tattoo. He can see the mudhorn in all its curves and hard edges. A clan of three. Luke's mudhorn flashes past his eyes- a sign of their commitment, their bond with each other. He'd been happy when Din had asked if he would be okay with them being married. He'd said _yes_ , because at the time it wasn't something he could ever fathom giving Din himself.

But now- _now_ he looks at the mudhorn and aches. Wonders what it would be like if Din bothered to offer it to him. He's never wanted it, never wanted to adhere to mandalorian culture that closely, but- but it isn't about the culture. It's about Din. Being his in any way that he can. It's about being part of something, so maybe he won't be so hollow when he thinks of Din and Luke far away from him. When he thinks of all the things that Din can do- the people he can meet without getting a blaster drawn or downright hostility. He questions, if not for the first time, if he's an afterthought. Din kisses him like he matters, Luke whispers sweet nothings to him like he cares, but- but they gravitate toward each other in a way that's so- natural. He feels like a planet stuck between two black holes- pulled in both directions without either one gaining the upper hand or trying any harder to hold on.

\--

"He's upset."

"I know." 

"We should _do_ something." Luke insists. Always looking out for other people. Trying to untangle their hurts.

"He doesn't want to talk about it." Din. Trying to give him space. "I tried."

He turns on his heel before Luke can sense him listening in. He heads down to the kitchen in full armor, grabs a knife, and begins to chop. He slices vegetable after vegetable, until his hand cramps from holding the handle of the blade and there's nothing left to do. He stands in front of the cutting board, knife trembling in hand, and flinches when a hand touches his shoulder.

He sees green- green and then carefully wrapped lekku. Mink. Her pale eyes are worried, and she takes the knife from his hand and sets it down. 

"Boba." Her voice is soft, pitying, and something inside him snaps.

"I don't need your pity."

"Oh, honey. It's been eatin' you up- those two comin' and goin'."

"They're busy." He spits out, refusing to meet her gaze. "I'm fine."

She doesn't believe him. Why should she? She knows as well as he does that he's lying. "You know, shootin' and fightin' might be easier, but y'all have to talk."

"We do talk."

"So they know what's been tyin' your stomach in knots? What brings you down here so damn often?" He doesn't have an answer to that, and she knows it. She harrumphs, crossing her arms. "Go talk to em, dammit. And don't you show tail or hide until you're done poutin. You're makin' the food taste sad." 

He wants to point out that he's only cutting up vegetables, but she gives him a hard look and shoves him from the kitchen. He makes his way back to his rooms with stilted, heavy steps. The closer he gets the harder it is to breathe, and he hopes his breaths aren't as shallow as they sound in his ears. He gets just outside his door before his mind tells him to run, and he's stuck between the feeling of doing just that and doing what he knows he should. 

Luke takes the decision from him. He takes it, and Boba is forever grateful that he opens the door, frown on his face. This time when he hesitates, Luke grabs him by the elbow, drags him inside and walks him to the middle of the room. He stays there, waiting, and he tries not to flinch when both of them come up, working efficiently together to strip him of his armor. He wishes they would have left it on, so that maybe he'd have some barrier but-

"Tell me what's wrong." His voice is soft, kind. His eyes are the same, full of worry and doubt. He shakes his head at Luke, not knowing how to talk, how to explain. He expects Luke to be angry, but Luke looks at him appraisingly, reaching up to tug the glove off of his right hand. The view of skin jars him- somehow he thought it would just be a prosthetic. But he has skin, slightly translucent but still skin. " _Show_ me?"

"I-" the last thing that he wants is Luke in his head. He can't hide then, can't tuck away any information he doesn't want Luke to know. It's a sincere offer, he knows it is, but fear spikes through him all the same. Luke seems to understand, and instead he takes Boba's hand, thumb smoothing over his knuckles. 

"Boba, are you happy?"

"Yes."

"With what you're doing?"

A pause so he can process that. "Most of the time. When there are things to do."

Luke's lips twitch, hiding a smile. "Are you happy with Din?"

"Always."

"... With me?"

" _Yes._ " The mudhorn on Luke's cloak flashes as he steps closer, and his eyes flick down toward it and then firmly back up to Luke's face, staying there. There's a noise from Din, something shocked and hurt- he noticed. 

"But not with _us_ ." He opens his mouth to protest- he doesn't have a problem with them- he _loves_ them. It occurs to him then, that he hasn't told them, that maybe he's in a lot deeper than he thought he was. "Boba, are you upset that we're a clan?" 

" _No._ No- I may be a bad person but I'm not _that_ vindictive."

"That isn't what I meant." His voice is calm, face ever patient, and he smooths his thumb over the back of his hand now. "Boba- I need you to talk. I can't do this on my own and it- it breaks my heart, breaks _his_ to see you like this."

Din, his silent support. Stalwart and steady, he's standing near enough that he could touch. There, if he ever needs him. He hates the thought of making him sad, and words twist up inside of him- the ones that burst from his lips aren't what he's expecting.

"Why don't I go with you? Why don't I- have the mudhorn, or know what your apartment on Coruscant looks like?" A shudder goes through him when Din takes his other hand, palms fitting together easily as he links their fingers. "Why am I the afterthought?"

" _Boba_." He doesn't know who says it- he hears Din, but he sees Luke's lips moving. He feels Din's grip go tight, sees Luke's eyes shimmering with tears. “You aren’t. Gods- I think about you all the time. How much I miss you.”

“But that’s how you feel.” He recognizes that that’s Din- his voice is lower, softer. “You want to be part of- part of our clan?”

“You don’t have to offer to make me feel better.” His heart leaps at the question anyway, traitorous in its honesty. 

Din scoffs, brow furrowing. “As if having Boba Fett as part of my clan would be because of _pity_.” He laughs despite himself. He knows that Din is joking, in that dry way of his, and he appreciates it. He grows serious after a moment, and he moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with Luke in front of him, so that they can see each other. “I didn’t want to push- my clan, my creed. But that isolated you.”

“I didn’t want it before.”

“What changed?” Luke asks, curious as always.

“You.” 

“Me?”

“It was different- when we weren’t involved. But then we were and… it hurt, somehow.” He looks down at their hands, clasped together, and then back up at them. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Feelings rarely do.” Luke pulls his hand away for a moment, reaching up for the beskar mudhorn holding his cloak together. He doesn’t seem to care that it falls to the floor as he undoes the pin- he merely reaches forward, pinning it to his collar and smoothing it down. “A placeholder. Until we can get something that’s _you_.”

“What about you?” 

“I’m pretty spoiled.” Luke grins, unclipping the lightsaber from his belt and holding it out. He takes it, the cylinder warm from being so close to Luke’s body. He looks it over, not sure what he’s expecting, and there, curling on the hilt is another mudhorn. He reaches out without thinking- the lightsaber clangs against Din’s vambrace, but the mudhorn sings quietly- pure beskar, then. Din smiles at the test. “So keep it. Please.”

He hadn’t even thought about giving it back.

“If you’re going to bend my arm, I _guess_ I could keep it.” 

They both laugh this time, and the strings binding at his lungs, his heart loosen. He takes a breath, a full breath, and lets it out slowly, slowing his heart. He gets it back under control, but then Luke grins, mischief written all over his face, and clips his lightsaber back on his belt. 

“Now, in the effort of being closer… How much _tihaar_ do you have?”

“How do you know I have _tihaar_?” Luke elects not to answer, instead tilting his head until Boba sighs. “Enough. Why?”

“There’s a drinking game I played in the rebellion. It’s supposed to help people get to know each other.”

“I think we know each other.” 

Luke grins. “We’ll see.” 

\--

His head is starting to spin from the _tihaar_. 

It’s good, better than he expects from his first time brewing it, and out of the three bottles that they have, one is tipped on its side, empty. The other is in Luke’s hand, and he watches the clear liquid as he fills their glasses again. 

His cheeks are flushed with color, eyes slightly hazy, but he’s grinning bright. “Alright! Your turn.”

He passes a glass to him, and then to Din, who they both look at expectantly. Din looks better than they do- half of the stuff that they’ve done he didn’t by virtue of helmet. So his eyes are clearer as he looks the two of them over, swirling his glass.

“Never have I ever… Stolen a speeder.” 

Luke takes a shot immediately. Boba only hesitates a second before taking a shot. The burning isn’t nearly as bad as it was before, and he’s warm and flushed and a little itchy. 

Din doesn’t of course, and he raises a brow at Luke. “Really?”

“Had to steal one on Endor. Stormtrooper speeder- _man_ it was fast.” Luke grins at the memory, taking another sip purely because he wants to. “Surprised you _haven’t_.”

“Hm. Your turn.” Din glances over at him, smiling, and he tries to remember what question he was going to ask. He had one, didn’t he?

"Never have I ever… broken a prosthetic."

Luke blinks, bewildered, and takes a drink. Din, to his surprise, also drinks. Luke looks at the both of them, sets his glass down, and points an accusing finger at both of them.

" _Both_ of you have prosthetics?" Luke gets twin nods, and he looks to Din to explain. Two against one, Din highs heavily before slipping the glove of his right hand up and off. His hand doesn't look any different than he's used to, but Din traces a faint, silvery scar. It curves along the meat of his thumb, bisecting up his palm and disappearing between his index and middle finger. He turns his hand around, and the scar continues down the back of his hand, looping over his wrist and back up toward his palm.

He wiggles his fingers, and though they all move like they should, his index and thumb are faster, more fluid. "Blew my hand up on a botched job- lost my trigger finger and thumb."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty, maybe." 

All at once they look at him, expectant. The sudden shift of attention makes his head spin, and he steadies himself for a second when he stands up. How much of the first bottle was him drinking? It's a bit awkward, a little weird to think about, but he props his left foot on his chair, pulling his pant leg up. He's always, always kept it hidden- the synth skin is obviously not his- too smooth, too unmarred. His own scar goes around his calf, a couple inches below his knee. 

"Sarlacc got to my left leg first." Luke looks stricken for an instant, face vaguely green. He tries to soften whatever blow he might have felt, tugging his pant leg back down and flopping down into his chair. Sitting is easier than standing. "It's a small price to pay for my life." 

Luke glances down at his own hand, as if he echoes the sentiment. Based on the history of his hand, he knows he does. Luke's eyes are bright again when he looks up, and a shit eating grin grows on his face when he chimes in. "Never have I ever been knocked into a sarlacc."

"You _ass-_ " Din laughs, and Boba is the only one to take a shot. 

They polish off another bottle between the three of them.

_Never have I ever gotten my ass kicked by a mudhorn._

_Never have I ever let my kid force choke someone._

_Never have I ever worn black as a fashion statement._

_Never have I ever crawled in mud for a mission._

_Never have I ever eaten frogs._

_Never have I ever had a thing for men with mustaches._

_Never have I ever been this happy._

Din is the only one who manages to get out of bed in the morning.

\--

“Hey Boba?”

“Hm?”

“Wanna come to Coruscant with me?”

His helmet clangs to the floor. Swearing, he reaches to scoop it back up, to wipe the smeared paint off of the front so he can start again. Only once his hands are steady, his lines neat, does he respond.

“When?”

“Once your armor is dry.” 

He nearly drops his helmet again, and he looks up, trying to gauge whether Luke is serious or not. All he _sees_ is seriousness- he's frowning slightly, brow furrowed, but he can also see his worry. His hesitancy to ask. Coruscant isn't a place that someone like Boba Fett can just hang out. Well, not before, maybe. To them, the Boba Fett they saw fall into the sarlacc pit is dead. He made sure to swear Luke to secrecy on whether his reemergence was real or fake.

He stares at him, debating, before he nods and goes back to painting. "I'll have to ask Fennec to-"

"She already agreed."

“... You were planning this?”

“I was hoping you would say yes.” He doesn’t outright admit it, but his cheeks are pink, and he glances away for a moment, reaching to rub the back of his neck. His hands are covered in paint- green, for the front of his chest plate. Finally patching up the spots from that sandstorm so long ago. He doesn’t seem to care about getting paint on the back of his neck. 

"... You know the paint takes a day to dry, right?"

Luke blanches "A _day_? What kind of paint is this?"

"The wet kind." He forces his face to remain the same, forces himself not to laugh as Luke curses, rubbing a green hand over his face and smearing paint again. He has to admit, the green looks fetching on him. "Sooner we finish the sooner we can leave."

He's still frowning, but he takes up Boba's chestpiece and gets back to work. He's quite handy with a paint brush, tongue stuck out and nose just slightly wrinkled. He's so ordinary this way, covered in paint and sitting in one of Boba's shirts to keep his own black clean that he can almost forget he's a Jedi. Almost. Every so often something will float into Luke's hand, or toward him when he silently laments how far away the yellow paint is. 

It's peaceful sitting on the floor, helmet in his hands as he finishes the last line of red. He sets it carefully to the side, careful not to let the red touch. He painted the green yesterday, because he's smart. Smarter than he's being about his knee pads The knee pads are almost a lost cause anyway- the mini rockets in them coat the metal in soot, so the color is sullied almost immediately. His pauldrons he spends a little more time on. He touches up the yellow, draws the old designs to the forefront, and thinks fondly off all the times he watched his father do this.

His colors had been easier- grey and blue. Clean, simple. No embellishments or flashy colors to draw the eye to weak spots. No, just flat grey and deep blue. He hadn't known what the colors meant when he was a child, and even now he didn't really care. But blue had fit his father- it had drawn out the warmth in his skin, comforted him when he woke up from a nightmare and Jango was there to calm him down. When Din had asked him once about the colors, explaining along the way, he'd thought about what he had unintentionally chosen. 

Red. For honoring family.

Green. Duty.

Yellow- Din hadn't had an answer for that one. The closest was gold, and that didn't quite fit. So he'd given it a new definition- his _own_ definition. 

Perseverance. 

Through it all- his childhood, losing his father, going to prison, falling into the seedy underbelly of bounty hunting, he'd endured. He'd dragged himself through the mud, sometimes literally, there and back by his fingertips, and he would continue to do so. 

But he's thinking about blue again- about his father. Blue meant reliability. He knew in part it was because Jango was a professional- he did his job, did it well, and never came back empty handed. He was someone people counted on to get the job done. He was there, a steady rock when Boba was first learning to fight, to shoot a blaster. Steady, silent, as he flew the _Slave_ for the first time. He was the color blue in every definition of what it meant in mandalorian culture, and he knows he can never live up to it. Has never dared to bring that color to life on his armor, save the small mark on the corner of his chestpiece. 

He's never been able to uphold that legacy in quite the same way, but he made his own. 

He finishes the second pauldron, setting it down, and looks up at Luke. Watches the way he folds over the chestpiece, tongue peeking out as he delicately inks the lines of the sigil. He's still staring when Luke's eyes flick to meet his, ever aware of scrutiny. The blue is lighter, clearer than Jango's, but maybe that's why he loves his eyes so much. _Reliability_. Someone he can lean on, no matter what- someone who has his back, even when the world crashes down around them. 

"Are you done?"

"Nnnnnn- yup!" He draws the sound out in his mouth before agreeing, adding the final touch to the paint and then gingerly laying the chestplate down. Luke glances up at all of Boba's completed pieces, then back down at his one. "You're faster than I am."

"Been doing it for a few years." He agrees, hoisting himself up off the ground. He offers Luke a hand, drawing him up, and Luke uses it has an excuse to bump into him, leaning close with a grin. He dips down to kiss him, but Boba stops him with a finger on his chin. "You're covered in paint."

"I fail to see how that's a problem."

"If you don't clean up, you'll be green forever."

"Thought you said it took a day."

"Thought you could tell when people lie." He laughs at Luke's scowl, chucking him gently under the chin and nodding toward the door. "Let's go get washed up. Paint should be dry by the time we come back."

"It'll take more than five minutes."

He doesn't give Luke a response, dragging him off to the refresher to get cleaned up. He starts the shower without a thought, and Luke slips under regardless of the fact that it's cold. Never one to waste water. Boba knows that's the moisture farmer in him. The paint comes away from his skin easily, and he watches him wash up.

He means to join him- he reeks of paint and stale air and he should, but one look at the 'fresher, at the small space he'd have to occupy and his heart is racing. 

"You know," Luke starts, soap in his hair and eyes closed, "you should really make this bigger."

"Yeah?"

"You, me _and_ Din have to be able to shower together once in a while."

"Oh we do, do we?"

"Mhm. Imagine it- wide open space, big showerhead… steam everywhere…"

Something in Luke's voice conjures to mind an image- a much, much larger shower. Wide and deep enough that they can stand together comfortably without Boba feeling like he's trapped. He can practically feel water against his skin- warm and soothing against his scars- can smell the soap that he keeps on hand. Something faintly musky, mostly scentless to aid in being less noticeable. 

"You could spend as much time as you wanted in here. Enjoying the warmth when the suns set… enjoying the sight of us together."

"Together?"

"It's a big shower." Luke muses, and he can hear the smile in his voice. "Big enough to do other things outside the reach of the water." 

"That's a waste of water." He teases, Luke laughing. 

His lips find the spot just behind his ear, and he shivers at the water pattering over his shoulders. "Not if you were showering. _Someone_ would be using it."

"I'd be watching?"

"We make for a pretty sight. Promise."

"I know." His voice is rough in his throat at the thought, and he opens his eyes to look, to drink in that sight.

All he sees instead is the wet expanse of Luke's chest, the slope of the shower wall around him. His heart leaps up into his throat, but Luke's hands smooth over the slope of his shoulders, something cool and calm sinking into his bones. "There we are."

"Did you use-"

"No. Just some good storytelling, and maybe a little force calm." 

He should feel violated, he thinks, but instead he feels much better having gotten in, and when he glances toward the soap he instantly recalls hands roaming over him, washing him. 

"You should tell stories more often."

"Yeah?"

"If they can coerce me into getting in, they can _ruin_ Din."

Luke laughs, turning the water off and drawing them out and away from the shower. They stand in the middle of the room, dripping wet, and their foreheads press together as Luke murmurs. "I'll have to keep that in mind." 

\--

"You're _sure_ this is a good idea." He eyes the private landing pad, where normally, Luke says, his x-wing would be. But his x-wing is still on Tatooine, safe in his garage. Instead, they'd taken the _Slave_ , and had gotten pinged no less than four times as an enemy before Luke got on the comms and demanded they stop trying to send a fighter unit out.

_It's just me_ , he had said. 

Just him, and the empire's former elite bounty hunter. 

"It's _my_ landing pad."

"If I get shot-"

"Boba?" 

"What."

"Shut the hell up and land the ship."

He scoffs, but Luke grins from the co-pilot's chair and he does as he's told. His head spins briefly as they tip backward, and then the ship is setting down, the engines powering down with a whine. He's slipping from the seat and down into the cargo bay before he can psych himself up anymore, Luke at his heels. 

He probably shouldn't be decked in weapons as he exits the _Slave_ , but Luke hasn't warned him of anything and he feels better having an arsenal. He'd debated wearing the helmet- he'd seen how Luke had reacted the first time to seeing him again, but Luke had pressed it into his hands without a word. So the helmet went on, and he adjusted to seeing Luke in washed out colors, blue eyes filled by the visor.

"Were they meeting us?"

"In my apartment. C'mon, it's just up here."

"The landing pad goes right to your apartment?"

"Neat, huh?"

"If you want assassins to have a field day." Luke shoots a look over to him, rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. Luke takes his hand, squeezing tight, and drags him across the landing pad toward his door. It shouldn't be dragging- he wants to see Luke's sometimes home, but his feet are lead, and picking them up gets harder and harder.

He pushes through the feeling anyway, noting the tense set of Luke's shoulders. So he isn't the only one who's nervous then. That makes him feel a _little_ bit better. If Luke is nervous, then his paranoia is founded in some aspect of reality. 

They make it to the door far too quickly, and he's still trying to piece himself together when Luke stops, turning to face him. His Jedi looks him over, squeezes his hands, and takes a deep breath. For once, for the first time he can't find the apprehension, the years old fear that had hidden in Luke's eyes at the sight of his helmet. For the first time he sees love, and only love. 

He should say something- something sappy or stupid just to make him laugh and break the tension. It's all he can think of, the moment that wraps around them both, but Luke is smiling, grinning brighter and brighter with each second, and his heart pounds. A black gloved hand comes up, and though he doesn't feel it, not really, he's aware of Luke tracing the cheek divot of his helmet, thumb resting where his cheekbone should be. 

"Thank you for coming."

"Anyti-" All words, all thoughts fly out of his head when Luke leans to press their foreheads together. Skin against beskar- it's a sight he's seen many times, felt, but. But never with his helmet on. Never with this old visage of him, haunting Luke everytime they have to fight together. His breath punches out of him in one great noise, ending on a pitiful little wheeze when Luke's other hand comes up, palms framing his helmet and holding him steady.

"You don't know what it means to me."

"I think I do." He manages to force it out, to speak past the lump in his throat. Luke hums appraisingly, nodding, and pulls back. 

"Okay. Now that I've been a sap," Luke claps his hands together, that same mischievous smile returning to his face. "Let's scare the shit out of Han."

And scare the shit out of him they do. He follows Luke inside the apartment, marking windows and exits and doorways, and then the arc of a blade as it goes flying.

It's a good throw, aiming right for the soft crook of his elbow- it would have disabled him almost entirely on the left side, were it not for the blade stopping mid flight, as if caught in a net. Luke's hand hasn't even moved, eyes slightly narrowed, and the blade wavers for a moment before dropping it handle side down into Boba's waiting palm.

"Kid, what the fuck?"

"That was a good throw." He steps around Luke, rolling the tenderness from his shoulders, and comes face to face with Han Solo. Just looking at him makes embarrassment prickling at the back of his neck. He'd done a lot to collect his bounty, to keep his vow of being as reliable as he could. Looking back on it now, with Luke here, Vader and the Empire gone, he feels acutely stupid for the obsession. 

Han looks much the same as he did before- scruffy, rough and tumble on the edges, and too cocky for his own good. Older, certainly, with wrinkles around his eyes, and something akin to fear, anticipation waiting in them. 

“Woulda been better if it _landed_.” Han glares over at Luke, but the Jedi is unruffled, hands folded in front of him. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“Now? I’m thinking about getting a cup of tea. How handsome he looks in green. Wondering what weather cycle they turned on for tonight- thunderstorm might be nice.”

“Har har, real funny kid.” 

Luke grins, pleased. “I thought so. But really- tea?”

“Already brought it.” A feminine voice chimes in, a dark head of hair poking out of the kitchen. Luke lights up at the sight of her, and he’s watching Luke while Luke watches his sister. Her face is just as warm, just as bright, and she comes over juggling a tray in her hands.

Boba reaches out without thinking, scooping the tray from her grip and replacing it with the knife. She looks at it, and him, with something akin to pissed confusion. 

“I think that’s your husband’s.” He doesn’t let it bother him- he knows better than to get further on her bad side. Giving her a weapon might not be the best idea, but she doesn’t sink it into his spine when he turns to offer Luke a cup, so he takes that as a good thing. Luke hums appreciatively, taking an old metal mug that looks more suited to a barrack than a lavish apartment on Coruscant. 

He plucks a mug off the tray for Han, passing it over, and then Leia is brushing past his shoulder, careful not to touch him. She takes a mug, dragging Han to sit on the couch, and he’s left holding the tray with one cup on it. After a second of debating, he sets the tray on the coffee table and then goes to stand by Luke’s side, leaning against the arm of his chair and cradling the last mug in his hands. 

He’s spent months perched on his own throne, dominating a room and commanding respect. Now, with Luke here with the closest thing he has to a family outside him and Din, he defers. Luke, for all the grief he’s probably gotten, still reaches with his free hand to pat at Boba’s hip, touch lingering for a moment before his hand drops to rest on his knee. Even through the knee plate he believes he can feel the heat of Luke’s hand. 

“So.” Leia begins, taking a sip of her drink and not seeming phased by the heat. Maybe it’s a them thing- weirdly resistant to temperatures. “... It was Boba Fett, wasn’t it?”

Luke snorts into his drink, taking a loud, slow sip, and he reaches to swat at the back of his head without thinking. Leia flinches, Han tenses, and Luke laughs. He laughs, and looks up at him, sticking his tongue out. He manages to pull his tongue back into his mouth before it can get grabbed, and he rolls his eyes, looking back at Leia.

“It is. Leia Organa? And Han Solo.” He’s not sure why the need for stiff formality, but it seems to be all she can manage without her brow furrowing. 

“Ugh. Leia, he isn’t a senator. He’s a bounty hunter.”

“Yes, a bounty hunter who’s hunted at _least_ two of us.” 

Luke rolls his eyes, but she does have a point. He finds himself talking, agreeing with her, even if it’s a bit redundant. “She has a point.”

“Din is a bounty hunter.” Luke points out, and that too is a good point. Din doesn’t have the same amount of blood on his hands that Boba does- of that he’s sure. He isn’t stained head to toe by his past the way that he is. Han and Leia don’t seem impressed. In fact, that seems to spur Han on further.

“Your other mando didn’t freeze me in carbonite.”

“Maybe not you,” He muses, reaching up with one hand to disengage the lock on his helmet. Luke takes his mug without a care in the world, holding it while he lifts the helmet from his head. The helmet is swapped for the mug, and he takes a sip while locking eyes with them, one after the other. “But he has to plenty of others.”

They stare at him- he can feel their eyes more and more with each passing second. He wants to put the helmet back on. He wants to put it on and shoot his way out and never come back- he wants Luke to stop looking at him that way, so damn _proud_ of him. The scar on his cheek flares with pain, the one on his neck tweaking mercilessly as his discomfort mounts, but he allows them to look. 

“Sarlacc acid.” If Leia recognises the wounds, she doesn’t say how. But she’s inquisitive, observant, and he nods, taking a sip of his tea to hide the pained twist of his lips. 

“We both tried to kill each other. We both survived.”

Han’s mouth flops open and closed like a fish, eyes wide, and finally he manages to form a sentence or two. “That’s different and you know it.”

“Is it?” It’s Luke who speaks this time, though he hears Leia start to say something as well. Her eyes are guarded but sincere, burning through him in a way the acid never did. Luke is a spitfire next to him, clutching his helmet in hand and leaning forward. “You didn’t know whether you would live in the carbonite. He was _guaranteed_ to die. You don’t escape a fucking Sarlacc.”

“He did.” Han says, voice tight and a frown on his face. Leia lays a hand on his thigh, and he notes the way her fingertips dig in. “Shit kid, you want me to just make nice with the merc who tried to hand me off to Jabba?”

“I’m not asking you to hold hands. I just-” Luke deflates at that, slumping back in his chair and looking down at the dark t of his visor. His heart twists at the sight, and he rests a hand on the back of Luke’s neck, gently kneading the muscle as Luke heaves a sigh. “He’s important to me. As important as Din is. I’d like it if you didn’t want to kill him.”

“Alright.” Leia murmurs, fingers clasped loosely around her mug. She’s looking at him as if he could jump at her at any moment, but also in a way so understanding that he doesn’t know what to do with it. She stares, and he tries not to crack under the pressure of her heavy, weighted gaze. “We won’t kill him.”

“Are you gonna like him?”

“Don’t push it.” Both he and Leia say it at the same time, and the incredulous, pleased shock on her face is enough for him to laugh. It’s a stilted, rusty thing not usually used in company, but Luke basks in it and Leia gives a small amused hum. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr at Purplesauris <3


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